


what we do in the neon-lit shadows (a vespers of Insomnia outtake)

by ninemoons42



Series: vespers of Insomnia [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Girls Kissing, Girls with Guns, Organized Crime, Rule 63, and doing so much more, they get shot at and then they bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Prompto's the getaway driver for when another night out goes to the dogs, but then: what did she expect, when she's both bodyguard and hot date to Noctis of the Lucis Caelum crime family?





	what we do in the neon-lit shadows (a vespers of Insomnia outtake)

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a teaser to my next FFXV AU, which involves girl!Prompto and girl!Noctis and a lot of guns and gangster things because it's going to be sort of a Mafia thing. Let me know what you think?
> 
> \----
> 
> As this is no longer going to be part of the main Vespers of Insomnia AU, I'm going to just include it in the series and mark it as an outtake, or a what-might-have-been.

“Little more, little more,” and Prompto shivered, and flexed her fingers on the controls of the motorcycle, and once again she cursed the necessity of the helmet and the fact that she had no peripheral vision in the fucking thing -- she had to turn her head from side to side constantly, just to make sure she could see as much of the road as she could, and -- oh, oh, green lights up ahead! 

Shrieked over her shoulder, as best as she could: “Hold on!”

“Doing the best I can!” was the equally muffled response -- and then she felt the knock against the back of her head, the impact of helmet against helmet, and she wished she had another hand so she could draw those arms around her waist closer, more tightly.

All of those considerations vanishing into the roar of the engine between her legs, the needles swinging wildly on the gauges as she threw the bike into a series of corkscrewing turns, weaving left and right against the cars that were too slow to get out of her way, and she felt her passenger’s gasp and the arms that were banding convulsively around her waist -- 

“Shit!”

Prompto couldn’t, couldn’t look back: not even when she felt her passenger completely break away from her, when she felt the weight on the bike shift hard and she had to dance the entire machine around to compensate -- shots ringing out behind her and she gritted her teeth, lowered herself to the handlebars, and knew her passenger was doing the exact opposite thing: standing up on the footpegs and firing, firing, shot and reload and shot and reload and then: “Clear!”

“Get back down,” Prompto screamed back at her and with the renewed presence of those wiry arms just above her hips, she felt the hand that slipped into the open zip of her riding leathers, the hand that slid over the bare skin of her stomach through the shredded hems of her shirt, and she allowed herself a small feral grin and -- finally, she wove through a series of turns and then: 

“Stop, Prompto, stop right here!”

Wild weaving U-turn -- maybe it was the adrenaline rush that made her want to show off a little -- and with a quick stroke of the brakes she was still, she’d gone still, the motorcycle still shivering as its engine wound down, and Prompto could finally take in where she was.

Brickwork facade and a door that was guarded by a burly woman, whose scarred face was illuminated by the rivers of string-lights trailing from the windows above her.

Kickstand down, and Prompto felt the weight of her passenger clamber off, and then she could lock the bike in place.

Her hands started shaking as soon as she took them off the handlebars.

Beside her, her passenger took off her helmet and the jacket that hung too-large and too-long from her shoulders. Night-hued hair gone flat and flushed cheeks, and hard edges in the press of her lips, and was it any surprise that the bouncer on the door went tense even as she bent her head in greeting?

“Hello, Amelia,” Noctis said to the bouncer.

“Trouble,” Amelia didn’t quite ask.

“Might still be. So -- just get the word out, right?”

A hard brief nod.

And now Noctis was turning in her direction. Was trying to smile. “In you get.”

How Prompto managed to take her helmet off when her hands were shaking so, she didn’t know: and only a pull on the back of her own hair made her feel steady again. Made her feel safe again, smelling the remains of dye on her fingertips. Dye, completely covering her blonde hair in a protective coat of burnished copper -- this way, she was safe, she was alive, she was relatively anonymous, free to be her own self.

“Remind me to thank Ignis,” she said, as she walked after Noctis. She could almost, almost still feel the careful meticulous strokes of his hands in her hair, almost relaxing as he worked the dye in.

And all of this was still new enough that she needed time to get used to the idea of being sort of a redhead in the first place.

She had been fine, sort of, when she’d been doing her own hair colors, when she’d been resolutely drowning the blonde in cheap smelly black.

But the point was the disguise and she’d take it any way she could get it: and now, in this place, who would remember a ginger girl and a dark-haired one, disappearing into the back door of a place called -- Prompto squinted at one of the mirror-faceted frames hanging at eye-level -- “Wisteria Walk”? And particularly when this place was part of a bustling neighborhood of men and women and voices singing sultry songs. Rooms full of the smells of smoke and sweet-sodden flowers, flickering lights and the soft cries of pleasure.

Up a set of stairs draped in sheer fine netting, and on the landing: “Young miss,” said a man in a beautiful tuxedo jacket and shirt over very short leather shorts, to Noctis. “We -- we received a call just now, and we were told to expect you.”

“Thank Cindy for me, Dino,” Prompto heard Noctis say, and then she was watching as Noctis extended her hand to him, so he could brush a gallant’s kiss over her knuckles. “But. You know. The usual rules apply. I don’t want to put any of your people out of business for the night. All I want, all we want, is a place where we can lock the door.”

“Fortunately for you, that does seem to be what we specialize in,” Dino said, with a low chuckle. 

And then he was turning to her, cool welcoming smile. “Welcome to the Wisteria Walk,” he said. “Any guest of the young miss is a guest of this house.”

And just as Iris had coached her, as Ignis had: she watched his hands, and saw the lightning-fast flicker of a snapping motion, and she smiled and turned partway around, just enough that she could show him the back of her collar. 

This, too, was new enough that she still had to fight the urge to scratch at it, but -- still. She could show him the back of her neck and the little skull that now lived in her skin, neatly inked lines just off-center of her backbone.

“Oh.” Dino’s smile widened, just a little, as she turned back to him. “Not just a guest, then.”

“I’m Prompto,” she said, extending her hand to him as she’d seen Noctis do.

He shook her hand firmly. “Honored to meet you, Prompto.”

“Remember that face, Dino,” Noctis said. “Not the hair though. Just the face. We’ll probably need to pass through a few more times. If you see her, treat her the way you do the others, got it?”

“Yes, young miss.”

And now Prompto was following both Dino and Noctis up another staircase: lit votive candles clustered on the first landing, and on the second. Corridors full of locked doors, and low laughter and moans, and Noctis was just smiling and shaking her head and looking down at her boots. 

Was she blushing, a little?

No more time to think or to wonder: Dino was pushing a door open, was passing a key to Noctis, and Prompto walked over the threshold and -- stopped dead.

What had she been expecting? Not the four-poster bed draped in sheer lace, or the wisteria-embroidered sheets, or the beautifully polished bare wooden floor, or the lengths of red brocade drawn closed over what she assumed was a window: because she could still smell the rain in here.

And that was it: the room and its soft lights, and the bed and the brocade and nothing else.

“What,” she began, as the door closed on Dino and she turned back to Noctis.

Who was wincing as she sat down on the foot of the bed, who was shaking out her shoulders and groaning softly, as she stripped off her suit jacket and the holsters in which she wore her pistols, the complicated rig that went around her torso to hold not just her cut-down shotgun but the different shells she carried to go with it.

Hurriedly Prompto pulled off her riding leathers, leaving her in just her shirt and her panties, and went to help her: she caught Noctis’s hands in both of her own, and reverently placed her hands in her lap, and whispered, “Can’t do to have you ruffled up, now.”

When had her voice dropped to that low quiet pitch?

“Right,” was Noctis’s reply, equally hushed, equally rough.

Buckles and straps. Prompto went farther, too, and knelt so that she could carefully ease Noctis’s feet out of her spiky boots. She couldn’t stop herself, either, from pulling away the sheer socks, from pressing her thumbs gently into the too-arched soles, the still-curled-in toes. “Relax, Noct,” she muttered, not really thinking about it. “Don’t want you getting cramps.”

“Don’t want those either.”

Hoarse sweet voice, nearly unrecognizable, and Prompto looked up, concerned: only to see the storm-blue of those eyes, nothing more than a thin rim around wide wide wide blown pupils.

And here it was again: the immense heat and weight of Noctis’s bare hand against her shoulder, and she swayed closer, blind and drunk on just that presence, so near, so good. 

“Hi,” Noctis said.

Prompto blinked. Smiled up at her. “Hi yourself, young miss.”

“Please don’t call me that. Not you. Never you.”

There was something about the sudden hard line of Noctis’s mouth that made Prompto think of betrayal, of pain, and -- she didn’t think, just reached out. “Sorry.”

“I couldn’t bear it if you called me that. You, you’re not someone who just works for me.”

“And I do,” Prompto said, as gently as she could. “You give me orders and I carry them out, if I think those orders make sense. Right?”

“Yes. But.” Wince. “Do you think, did it ever cross your mind, that I’d do things like -- give the others flowers?” 

Prompto blinked. “You don’t? You never have? I just -- I don’t know, Noctis, I haven’t been around that long, have I?”

That hard set melted away, suddenly, and turned into a small gentle smile. “I give them real flowers when the occasion calls for it. Ignis is especially fond of lilies. You can keep that in mind for if you want to give him something.” 

“Real -- ?” 

“Remember the last thing I gave you?”

“How could I forget,” Prompto said. “I -- really, Noctis, I don’t think I’d ever have the style to wear that huge spray of cherry blossoms.”

“If I asked you to wear it, though, like, at one of the family meetings -- ”

She had to think about it for a moment: silk flowers on a tortoiseshell prong, in the somber atmosphere of a Lucis Caelum meeting. “You’d ask me to wear it? Where everyone could see it?”

Languid shrug. “I don’t have any hang-ups about it. I gave it to you so you could wear it at some point. And I wouldn’t be above just asking you to wear it -- but I’d abide by your decision if you really felt you couldn’t.”

“But I would,” Prompto said. “Without you asking, even. I, I just, why, Noctis?”

“Because I want to. Because you deserve beautiful things. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“I -- we still need to talk about this, don’t we,” Prompto said, even as she was already rising partway up from where she was kneeling, drawn helplessly to Noctis as she always was -- 

“We will. I promise.”

And the fucked-up thing was, in all the guns and all the bloodshed and all the midnight chases, Prompto believed her.

Had believed her from the very first night, when she’d stumbled blindly into those arms, cheap black hair dye still stinking on her hands.

“Kiss me,” Prompto whispered, in the here and now.

Feral grin. Glimpse of sharp edges.

And this was far from the first time that she’d fallen headlong into the heady rush of Noctis, the breathtaking immense impact of her -- and it wasn’t just Noctis’s mouth that was making her groan. Those calloused fingertips wandering, unbuttoning, and the speed with which she managed to find all of Prompto’s sweet spots: brushing tender hot against the back of her ear and the hollow of her collar bones, the tip of her shoulder, the underside of her breast -- she could only moan, and whisper Noctis’s name, and she couldn’t even tell where she was any more, drowning -- 

“Prom,” Noctis was saying.

And she reached out for that beautiful tousled hair, sifting soft fragrant strands through her fingers before pulling, very gently, down: here was Noctis, laughing softly in the last instant before they collided in another scorching kiss.

Hands, still moving: Prompto felt out the lines of Noctis’s body through her clothes, the buttons in the back of her dress that she fumbled open, the clasp of her brassiere -- only to stop when she touched satin ribbon, looped lengths, circling Noctis’s thighs -- 

Prompto blinked, and needed to look, and pulled away.

Noctis only looked hurt for a moment, before Prompto tugged on the knot at her hip and she started laughing. “Oh, right. That.”

“Noctis,” Prompto said as she slowly moved to the bed, as she sat next to her and then, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled her into her lap. “What the fuck,” she said, half laughing, half lost in admiration. “This is what you wear when you’re getting shot at?”

What an image it made, though: the red red ribbon against the scars and the creamy white skin of Noctis, the ribbon that held together the plain black silk of Noctis’s panties.

“For the record, when I got dressed tonight I wasn’t expecting to get shot at,” and somehow Noctis was frowning and laughing at the same time. “I was expecting to -- ”

She licked playfully at the corner of Noctis’s mouth, and didn’t know how she could feel so bold. “Yeah? What were you expecting?”

“You,” was the answer, clear and quiet and hitting like a perfect strike to the solar plexus, like a clean shot and a bulls-eye. “I was expecting you. Out tonight. With me.”

“And then -- what? I mean, you wanted things like dinner and speeding and -- we just happened to get shot at, I mean, they didn’t even let us get dessert,” Prompto said, and maybe she felt a little afraid, teasing like this, but what was that in the face of this woman, this Noctis in her arms?

“And you looked like hell on wheels all throughout. Yes, even before the shooting started. Sorry we had to ditch the old bike though. You can keep that one that you stole, if you like, or we’ll find you something just as good.”

“Doesn’t matter, really, does it?” Prompto shrugged, and kissed the corner of Noctis’s mouth. “What does matter is, you were running and you, you shot every single bad guy off my back while I was stealing us a bike. You’re dangerous, you’re a distraction, you know that?” 

“You say that like you don’t know how distracting _you_ are,” Noctis was laughing.

And: “I wasn’t expecting this room when we got here, I really was planning to just, hide, but -- it’d be a shame to waste it, don’t you think, unless -- ”

“Have you ever known me to pass up a nice thing like, oh, like this, or you,” Prompto said, and she drank in the last of Noctis’s laughter as she kissed her again and pulled her down to the bed, straddling her thighs as easily as breathing, the better to run her hands slow slow slow down the curves and lines of Noctis’s flanks, lingering over the swell of her breasts.

“Prom, fuck, _please_ ,” echoing in her ears as she leaned in to lick slow circles around one nipple: she tasted the salt of Noctis’s sweat, the lingering citrus and wood notes of her cologne, and bit, lightly, before soothing the skin again with her tongue.

More swearing above her, reverent and rapid, and Prompto nipped a path over fair flushed skin to the other nipple and gave it the same slow careful treatment.

And Noctis shifted restlessly in her arms, called her name again and again, broken and more breathless with every repetition.

Up, up, to the pleasured daze in Noctis’s eyes: she reached out to stroke along Noctis’s cheekbone, and watched wide-eyed as Noctis seized her by the wrist. Pulled her up with that strength that was so incredibly gentle and so incredibly visible, in the bunched movements of her shoulders and arms. 

Prompto watched, dry-mouthed, as Noctis traced slow lines over her pointer and middle fingers with the very tip of her tongue, then stuck both digits into her mouth, cheeks hollowing out as she sucked.

“Noct, what the fuck,” Prompto whispered, and reluctantly pulled that hand away: and with the movement Noctis was already rising.

“Down,” she heard Noctis say, and she went almost cross-eyed at the need she could hear in just that one word. She couldn’t obey quickly enough -- she hit the bed with a thump and didn’t feel the twinge of pain, too busy staring as Noctis planted her knees on the bed on either side of her waist, and pushed her shirt away.

Prompto took a deep breath and was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of arousal, hers and Noctis’s both -- and she reached for the ribbon-loops. Tugged on one length and stopped, trying to steady her hands and her heart. “Tell me to stop and I will,” she said, trying to draw in enough breath around the words.

“Fuck no. Never. Don’t stop -- ” The answer was Noctis growling, low and rough in her throat, and pulling her panties away herself -- just barely stopping short of ripping the material away.

And there was Noctis over her, completely naked, completely and joyously shameless with it.

Prompto had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life, and wanted to say so -- but her thoughts felt ripped away by the need that was thundering in her ears.

“Gods, I, let me in, Noct,” she whispered, and she thought Noctis moaned out another obscenity, and then Prompto was sticking her own fingers back into her mouth, trying to get them as wet as she could before pushing them up into the slick hot folds of Noctis’s cunt, the clench of Noctis’s body.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Prompto whispered, and she curled her fingers a little, tried to get the leverage to thrust upwards -- but that wasn’t easy, not with her flat on her back, not with Noctis looming above her and actively riding her hand, her entire body grinding downwards with every movement and Prompto felt her own cunt ache with redoubled need, nerves gone white-hot everywhere -- she wasn’t going to come untouched, was she?

Oh, she was, she was, she was going to fly apart, she was going to -- 

Hands! Hands moving on her -- one stroking insistently against her mouth, the other cupping and kneading her breast roughly -- Prompto half-shrieked and moved the hand that was now wet with Noctis, fitting more deeply within her and then Noctis was utterly silent, utterly lost, and Prompto felt the shaking wave that swept through Noctis, again and again and again until she was finally sighing, satisfied --

That left her and then -- the world was spinning around her -- and a wicked-eyed Noctis was suddenly far too close, still unraveling as she ground her cunt into Prompto’s and it didn’t take much, the shock and the ecstasy of it breaking her at last -- 

She clung wordlessly to Noctis, afterwards, and tried to catch her breath, tried to catch her scattered thoughts --

**Author's Note:**

> ninemoons42 on Tumblr: [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)


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